Saturday, March 30, 2013

We had such fun with our Dudley Spin-an-Egg apparati today. While we also dyed solid color eggs in light pastels as well as rich brights (Sis's favorite), I had the most fun spinning eggs with multiple dyes; Bud did, too. Besides being fun, the result was very similar to the eggs of my childhood--beautiful, richly-colored, marbled eggs made with the now defunct Ruby's egg dyes. Bud said, "I'm an egg artist!"

Friday, March 29, 2013

For those of you who celebrate "American" Easter (or Catholic Easter, vs. Russian Orthodox Easter), we wish you a wonderful weekend!

We spent today, at first, at doctors' appointments--for a rash Sis has and for some trouble with our cat Hermione (she's edgy and fighting a lot--so we got her a phermone diffuser!). Then I had a wonderful visit with my hospice patient--she was awake and chatty and smiled a lot; best visit yet! Then Mama took the kids and I to a new restaurant--Venezuelan beach food! Batidos (like a lassi--kids had mango), chi cha (rice pudding-like drink, our favorite), mango iced tea, yucca fries, this yummy chimichurri-like guasacaca sauce, ceviche, plantains, black beans and rice, chili lime corn on the cob, arepas (a fried corn cake split in two and stuffed with different fillings--we had avocado and queso blanco, pernil/roasted pork, beef, ham and cheese, crispy honey chicken, chicken stew), empanadas (black bean and queso, "cheeseburger"), black bean soup, flan, arroz con leche, coconut tres leches, and tropical fruit salad. We'd cleaned some--we have a new-to-us pie safe that involved some rearranging downstairs--and now we're watching episodes of the colonial history cartoon, "Liberty's Kids."

And the Easter Penguin comes tonight!

Saturday we'll dye eggs and have a big Easter lunch (recipes are below) with Ma and Gong (Goo is on rotation at the hospital) and then Sunday the four of us will hunt eggs the Easter Bunny hides inside and out.

Always ham for Easter and we’d pick off
the chewy dark bits as soon as it was out of the oven. Very good the next
day cut up into macaroni and cheese.

To make red eye gravy, merely
boil ham drippings and add water. Some people add coffee.

Bake uncovered at 325°F for 1 1/2-2 hours.

Mom

-=-=-=-=-=-

Hasselback Potatoes

6 Medium Size Potatoes

2
- 3 Cloves Garlic, thinly sliced

2 Tbsp Olive Oil

30 g Butter

Sea
Salt

Freshly
Ground Black Pepper

Directions

Preheat
the oven to 220˚C (425˚F). Put the potato on a chopping board, flat side down.
Start from one end of the potato, cut almost all the way through, at about 3 to
4 mm intervals.

Arrange
the potatoes in a baking tray and insert the garlic in between the slits.
Scatter some butter on top of each potato. Then drizzle the olive oil and
sprinkle some sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Bake
the potatoes for about 40 minutes or until the potatoes turn crispy and the flesh
is soft.

In small pan, heat 1 tablespoon of sesame oil.
Add sesame seeds and almonds. Brown, stirring constantly.
don't let burn. Set aside. Chop scallion, using tops as well.
Combine crushed Ramen, scallion, and cabbage in a large bowl. Mix
together. In another bowl, whisk the vegetable oil, 1/2 cup of sesame oil, rice
vinegar, sugar, seasoning packet, salt, and pepper. Combine all, stirring
well. Store covered in refrigerator overnight. Stir a few times during
the day before serving. (*I'm working on using less oil and substituting
olive oil in this recipe).

Place all ingredients in bread machine pan
according to the order in the manufacturer's instructions. Program for the
DOUGH cycle; press START. The dough will be soft, but add no more than 2 to 3
extra tablespoons of flour as needed.

Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper.
When the machine beeps at the end of the cycle, press Stop and unplug the
machine. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide the dough in
half, then roll each half into a 2-3" cylinder. With a dough scraper, cut
the cylinder into 8 equal portions. Repeat with second cylinder, producing 16
portions total. Shape into desired shapes (I wonder if you can drop them into a
greased muffin tin like my other recipe?). Brush some melted butter along the
tops. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled, about 45
minutes.

Twenty minutes before baking, preheat oven to 375F.

Place the baking sheet in the center of the oven
and bake for 25-28 minutes, until golden brown. Remove rolls from pan and cool
on a rack.

To make ahead of time: Shape rolls as directed
above, but then bake in 300F oven for 15-20 minutes. Cool completely and then
freeze (up to 3 weeks) or refrigerate (up to 3 days). To serve, defrost.
Preheat oven to 375F. Bake 10-14 minutes, until golden brown.

Place the dough ingredients, except
the raisins or fruit, in the pan according to the order in the manufacturer's
instructions. Program for the Dough cycle; press Start.

Line a large baking sheet
with parchment paper. When the machine beeps at the end of the
cycle, press Stop and unplug the machine. Immediately turn the dough out
onto a lightly floured work surface. Pat into a fat rectangle and
sprinkle with raisins or fruit. Fold the dough over in thirds and knead
gently to distribute evenly. Cover with a clean tea towel and let rest on
the work surface for 15 minutes to relax the dough.

Divide the dough into 3 equal
portions. Using your palms, roll each section into a fat rope about 15
inches long and tapered at each end. Be sure the ropes are of equal size
and shape. Place the 3 ropes parallel to each other and braid like you
are braiding hair. Adjust or press the braid to make it look even.
Transfer to the baking sheet. Tuck the ends under, pinching the
ends into tapered points. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rise at
room temperature until the dough is almost doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

Twenty minutes before baking, set the
oven rack in the middle of the oven and preheat it to 375F.

Beat the egg white and water for the
glaze with a fork until foamy. Using a pastry brush, brush the tops
fo the loaves with the egg glaze and sprinkle liberally with the sugar.
Bake for 40-45 mintues, or until the loaves are golden brown and the
bread sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom with your finger. Cool on
the baking sheet on a rack. Let cool to room temperature before slicing.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

I'd never heard of it until I opened this month's Cook's Country and read the essay about cowboys cooking their meat and potatoes in 10-gallon milk cans out on the trail ride. It's like the Midwestern version of boiled New England dinner (also reminded me of Wisconsin fish boils in a way), but with brats instead of corned beef . . . plus beer!

And then later on the BBC, I read about how scholars now think 25% of American cowboys were African-Americans, most likely ex-slaves (just as so many cowboys were ex-soldiers, too, I believe.)

So, I had cowboys on the brain and decided to make milk-can supper, or as we called it tonight "cowboy dinner." The kids loved the story and devoured the meal. I can see making it with all manner of meat--chicken, pork chops--as long as you brown them first and layer them well, putting the longest-cooking items like the potatoes and carrots near the bottom and the meat towards the top. Also, I used chicken stock instead of beer tonight, to make sure the kids would like it the first time. And not brats--we used kielbasa. (And I ate my new favorite vegetarian "sausage" on the side, apple and sage by Field Roast available at Whole Foods--Bud likes it better than kielbasa.)

I think we should make this for Gommie and Pop when we are in Texas, but with some Texas beef sausage from Prasek's . . . and maybe, even though it'll be 100F, we should go to the George Ranch again!!

(I just asked Mama to look to see what the George Ranch had going on in July and she said, "It's got hot going on.")

Brown the kielbasa in a little oil until browned all over (about 6-8 minutes on medium high.) Remove from pot (I used a Dutch oven.) Layer ingredients in pot in this order, bottom to top: red potatoes, cabbage wedges (unstacked and all spread out flat), baby carrots, onion, garlic, and corn. Sprinkle with salt and pepper; add bay leaves and thyme. Distribute kielbasa on top and pour in chicken broth. Bring to boil, cover, and simmer approximately 15-20 minutes. Add green bell pepper on top and cook 15-20 minutes more until potatoes are tender (use long skewer to test doneness.) Remove to serving platter and discard bay leaves and thyme. Enjoy!

It was Cleaning House: A Mom's 12-Month Experiment to Rid Her House of Youth Entitlement by Kay Wills Wyma. It's certainly not my usual read, though I have been reading some self-improvement, parenting, non-fiction books in the last few years.

But I don't think I've ever read one that has a blurb from Focus on the Family on the cover. Or that was written by a person who worked in the Bush White House. A woman who decries the socialism of our current government and the entitlement of the welfare state, all while exploring why her youngsters don't pick up after themselves and she had let them get away with it.

Yeah, that's equivalent: food stamps and unemployment vs. kids thinking it's their mom's job to clean the house. Why do I think no kid in public housing would ever say that to his or her mom??

So, right away, my spine is up about the author's politics. I just wanted to read why and how she went about encouraging older kids to be more pro-active in household chores.

And I'll admit, Republican Tea-Partyism aside (and I feel quite proud of myself that I can read a book from across the aisle, so to speak!), I liked her idea about the $30 jar. Essentially, kids are giving a jar with 30-$1 (or 31 or 28) bills in it at the beginning of each month. Everyday that they do their assigned clean-up in their rooms, they get to keep their dollar; however, in the event that they leave clothes, toothbrushes, toys out and about, they lose the dollar.

I have a pile of ones ready for April.

I was curious to see what she did the other months--each month was a new household chore like laundry, cooking, gardening, etc. I wonder what 12 chores I'd want to train the kids in--opening cat food cans and scooping the litter box? taking the recycling out? dusting? washing windows? They already unload the silverware (they can't reach any of the dish or glass cabinets), "shark" the kitchen floor, and help with feeding the cats and with laundry. With no remuneration because we firmly believe it's part of their responsibility as members of the family. But we also realize that the time has come for a bit of an allowance, which they can earn. We're also prepping them to take care of their own spaces as we get ready to put them in separate rooms this summer (which will involve moving about 1000 books, dressers, a bed, etc, and has repercussions across 2 floors and the basement.)

She also wrote about how, while she was taught responsibility and had chores (though, she admits not many because she had sports and studying, and, speaking of entitlement, she got a BMW for her Sweet 16), she hadn't required any of that of her four kids. I'm particularly interested in this because I had no chores or responsibilities as a child: I did not help with dishes, laundry, the yard, garbage, feeding the pets. Nothing. My mom had me mow a row of grass once but decided she didn't like how I did it and thought it would be easier to do herself. I figure I got out of all the work that way. Otherwise, I kept my room impeccably clean because I liked it that way. I did my homework and made As because that was my only job (but I'm not even sure how expected that was; I never really talked about grades with my parents, probably because I had good ones. They certainly never inquired about much less looked at my homework.) But I left for college never having handled money because I had no allowance (but had perfected begging and borrowing to buy whatever), never having done my own laundry, etc etc etc. And when I had my own apartment, I scrubbed toilets and tubs for the first time, unsure how to do any of it.

My kids aren't going to be that lucky. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that's what you call it.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Sis and Bud are fixated on a new musical, The Secret Garden, which is based on the book and appeared on Broadway in the early 1990s. Mama saw the original cast including Tony-winner Daisy Egan; I saw the national tour sometime afterwards in Houston. We both loved it and enjoyed singing along then and after we got together.

We hadn't listened to it for awhile and I can't recall what got us started again. I think Bud heard it one of the songs, "Winter's on the Wing," on Mama's iPod shuffle in the car on the way to kung fu one day. Then on the way to and from various places over the weekend, we listened to the whole soundtrack, explaining the story as we went. Mama and I loved hearing it again, especially the duet, "A Girl in a Valley," which is one of our favorite Broadway love songs.

They're hooked. Bud's tried to play "Winter's on the Wing" on the piano. They've changed their morning wake up music. There are very few videos online, but Mama did show them the Tony performance complete with Mandy Patinkin et al.

And after days of singing about things waking up in gardens, of plants being wick, it's 49F outside and sunny . . . and, best of all, the snowstorm skipped us!

Monday, March 25, 2013

I have a new profile picture, after some 5 years!Yes, that's me--about 3 years old and still blonde--in the requisite Texas wildflower pose at my grandparents' place ("Raucous") in Denton. I include the full picture here. Note the mighty flexible "w" position! And the pond that was later drained and became a rose garden. Hey, Sis, I'm wearing pink pants! And a mighty butch navy pea coat (which I imagine my Bammie, who thought Gommie didn't dress me like a little girl, did not like. She thought the pants--and overly sensitive Mr. Rogers--might affect me. Little did she know she was right, but not because of clothes or tv!) I like that I'm smelling the flowers! A good reminder to the older, brunetter me.

With Easter this weekend, I've begun my planning and shopping. Lindt is donating money to Autism Speaks, so I stalked up on chocolate bunnies. And this morning, I went to the regular store to get the things that Whole Foods doesn't carry, like cheese spread, bacon bits, and lemon cake mix. There will be more shopping, not only because I'm not done with Easter but because I'm taking a meal to the family of Sis and Bud's classmate with cancer this week (probably spaghetti pie with salad and banana pudding, also a pot of tortellini soup because they liked it last time).

Friday, March 22, 2013

I've mentioned that I've been singing and reading to my hospice patient. Sometimes, though, I need a cheat sheet of lyrics and a better way to find verse on the fly. And so here it is, so I can find it again and again--some of the songs and poems I think will work (well, I include "Death" by Donne, but I'm not sure I could read it.) I haven't tried them all during my visits, but here they are. For the next time and the time after that . . . .

Love Me Tender

Love me tender,

Love me sweet,

Never let me go.

You have made my life complete,

And I love you so.

Love me tender,

Love me true,

All my dreams fulfilled.

For my darlin I love you,

And I always will.

Love me tender,

Love me long,

Take me to your heart.

For it's there that I belong,

And well never part.

Love me tender,

Love me dear,

Tell me you are mine.

Ill be yours through all the years,

Till the end of time.

(when at last my dreams come true

Darling this I know

Happiness will follow you

Everywhere you go).

Amazing Grace

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,That saved a wretch like me.I once was lost but now am found,Was blind, but now I see.

Through many dangers, toils and snaresI have already come;'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus farand Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me.His word my hope secures.He will my shield and portion be,As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,And mortal life shall cease,I shall possess within the veil,A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand yearsBright shining as the sun.We've no less days to sing God's praiseThan when we've first begun.

--John Newton, "Amazing Grace"

Think of Me

Think of me

think of me fondly,

when we've said

goodbye.

Remember me

once in a while -

please promise me

you'll try.

When you find

that, once

again, you long

to take your heart back

and be free -

if you

ever find

a moment,

spare a thought

for me ...

We never said

our love

was evergreen,

or as unchanging

as the sea -

but if

you can still

remember,

stop and think

of me ...

Think of all the things

we've shared and seen -

don't think about the things

which might have been ...

Think of me,

think of me waking,

silent and

resigned.

Imagine me,

trying too hard

to put you

from my mind.

Recall those days,

look back

on all those times,

think of the things

we'll never do -

there will

never be

a day, when

I won't think

of you ...

Memory

Daylight

See the dew on the sunflower

And a rose that is fading

Roses whither away

Like the sunflower

I yearn to turn my face to the dawn

I am waiting for the day . . .

Midnight

Not a sound from the pavement

Has the moon lost her memory?

She is smiling alone

In the lamplight

The withered leaves collect at my feet

And the wind begins to moan

Memory

All alone in the moonlight

I can smile at the old days

I was beautiful then

I remember the time I knew what happiness was

Let the memory live again

Every streetlamp

Seems to beat a fatalistic warning

Someone mutters

And the streetlamp gutters

And soon it will be morning

Daylight

I must wait for the sunrise

I must think of a new life

And I musn't give in

When the dawn comes

Tonight will be a memory too

And a new day will begin

Burnt out ends of smoky days

The stale cold smell of morning

The streetlamp dies, another night is over

Another day is dawning

Touch me

It's so easy to leave me

All alone with the memory

Of my days in the sun

If you touch me

You'll understand what happiness is

Look

A new day has begun

For the
Beauty of the Earth

For the beauty of the earth,

For the beauty of the skies,

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.

For the beauty of each hour

Of the day and of the night,

Hill and vale, and tree and flower,

Sun and moon and stars of light,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.

For the joy of human love,

Brother, sister, parent, child,

Friends on earth, and friends above,

Pleasures pure and undefiled,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.

For each perfect gift of thine,

To our race so freely given,

Graces human and divine,

Flowers of earth and buds of heaven,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.

For thy Church which evermore

Lifteth holy hands above,

Offering up on every shore

Her pure sacrifice of love,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.

Simple Gifts

'Tis the gift to be
simple, 'tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity
is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

'Tis the gift to be
loved and that love to return,
'Tis the gift to be taught and a richer gift to learn,
And when we expect of others what we try to live each day,
Then we'll all live together and we'll all learn to say,

'Tis the gift to have
friends and a true friend to be,

'Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of "me",
And when we hear what others really think and really feel,
Then we'll all live together with a love that is real.[

The Earth is our
mother and the fullness thereof,
Her streets, her slums, as well as stars above.
Salvation is here where we laugh, where we cry,
Where we seek and love, where we live and die.

When true liberty is
found,
By fear and by hate we will no more be bound.
In love and in light we will find our new birth
And in peace and freedom, redeem the Earth.

'Tis a gift to be
simple, 'tis a gift to be fair,
'Tis a gift to wake and breathe the morning air.
And each day we walk on the path that we choose,
'Tis a gift we pray we never shall lose

Lord of the Dance

I
danced in the morning when the world was begunI danced in the Moon & the Stars & the SunI came down from Heaven & I danced on EarthAt Bethlehem I had my birth:Dance then, wherever you may beI am the Lord of the Dance, said He!And I'll lead you all, wherever you may beAnd I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He!(...lead you all in the Dance, said He!)I danced for the scribe & the phariseeBut they would not dance & they wouldn't follow meI danced for fishermen, for James & JohnThey came with me & the Dance went on:Dance then, wherever you may beI am the Lord of the Dance, said He!And I'll lead you all, wherever you may beAnd I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He!(...lead you all in the Dance, said He!)I danced on the Sabbath & I cured the lameThe holy people said it was a shame!They whipped & they stripped & they hung me highAnd they left me there on a cross to die!Dance then, wherever you may beI am the Lord of the Dance, said He!And I'll lead you all, wherever you may beAnd I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He!(...lead you all in the Dance, said He!)I danced on a Friday when the sky turned blackIt's hard to dance with the devil on your backThey buried my body & they thought I'd goneBut I am the Dance & I still go on!Dance then, wherever you may beI am the Lord of the Dance, said He!And I'll lead you all, wherever you may beAnd I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He!(...lead you all in the Dance, said He!)They cut me down and I leapt up highI am the Life that'll never, never die!I'll live in you if you'll live in Me -I am the Lord of the Dance, said He!Dance then, wherever you may beI am the Lord of the Dance, said He!And I'll lead you all, wherever you may beAnd I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He!

Ordinary
Miracle

It's not that unusual

When everything is beautiful

It's just another ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when it's time to snow

Don't need to teach a seed to grow

It's just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say

Wrapped up for you everyday

Open up and find a way

To give some of your own

Isn't it remarkable

Like every time a raindrop falls

It's just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling

Will always make it home by spring

It's just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday

Please don't throw your dreams away

Hold them close to your heart

'Cause we're all a part of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle

Do you want to see a miracle?

It seems so exceptional

The things just work out after all

It's just another ordinary miracle today

Sun comes up and shines so bright

And disappears again at night

It's just another ordinary miracle today

It's just another ordinary miracle today

Cottonfields

When I was a little bitty baby

My mama would rock me in the cradle,

In them old cotton fields back home;

It was down in Louisiana,

Just about a mile from Texarkana,

In them old cotton fields back home.

Oh, when them cotton bolls get rotten

You can't pick very much cotton,

In them old cotton fields back home.

SummertimeSummertime,

And the livin' is easyFish are jumpin'And the cotton is highOh, Your daddy's richAnd your mamma's good lookin'So hush little babyDon't you cryOne of these morningsYou're going to rise up singingThen you'll spread your wingsAnd you'll take to the skyBut until that morningThere's a'nothing can harm youWith your daddy and mammy standing bySummertime,And the livin' is easyFish are jumpin'And the cotton is highYour daddy's richAnd your mamma's good lookin'So hush little babyDon't you cry

Can’t Help
Lovin’ Dat Man of Mine

Fish got to swim, birds got to fly,

I got to love one man till I die.

Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

Tell me he's lazy, tell me he's slow,

Tell me I'm crazy, (maybe I know).

Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

Oh listen sister,

I love my mister man,

And I can't tell you' why

Dere ain't no reason

Why Ishould love dat man,

It mus' be sumpin dat de angels done plan.

Fish got to swim, birds got to fly,

I got to love one man till I die.

Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

Tell me he's lazy, tell me he's slow,

Tell me I'm crazy, (maybe I know).

Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

When he goes away,

Dat's a rainy day,

And when he comes back dat day is fine,

De sun will shine!

He kin come home as late as can be,

Home without him ain't no home to me,

Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

Water is Wide

The water is wide

I can't cross over

And neither have

I wings to fly

Build me a boat

That can carry two

And both shall row

My love and I

There is a ship

And she sails the sea

She's loaded deep

As deep can be

But not so deep

As the love I'm in

I know not how

I sink or swim

Oh love is handsome

And love is fine

The sweetest flower

When first it's new

But love grows old

And waxes cold

And fades away

Like summer dew

Build me a boat

That can carry two

And both shall row

My love and I

And both shall row

My love and I

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken, like the first morning.

Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,

Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.

Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.

Praise for the sweetnes of the wet garden,

Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.

Born of the one light Eden saw play.

Praise with elation, praise every morning;

God's recreation of the new day.

Morning has broken, like the first morning.

Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,

Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Now I Walk in
Beauty

Now I walk in Beauty

Beauty is before me

Beauty is behind me

Above and below me.

Be Like a Bird

Be like a bird, who, halting in her flight

On a limb too slight, feels it give way beneath her;

Yet sings, sings, knowing she has wings;

Yet sings, sings, knowing she has wings.

River of Birds in
Migration

There’s a river of birds in migration

A nation of women with wings.

Come Come Whoever
You Are

Come, Come whoever you are

Wanderer, worshiper, lover of learning

Ours is no caravan of despair

Come, come again, come.

Come Sing a Song
with Me

Come,sing a song with me; come,sing a song with me;

Come sing a song with me thatI might know your mind.

And I’ll bring you hope, when hope is hard to find;

And I’ll bring a song of love, and a rose in the wintertime.

Come share a rose with me; come share a rose with me;

Come share a rose with me, thatI might know your mind.

And I’ll bring you hope, when hope is hard to find;

And I’ll bring a song of love and a rose in the wintertime.

Keep on Moving Forward

Gonna keep on walking forward

Keep on walking forward

Keep on walking forward

Never turning back

Never turning back

Gonna keep on walking proudly

Gonna keep on singing loudly

Gonna keep on loving boldly

Gonna reach across our borders

Gonna end the occupations

Gonna stop these wars together

Gonna keep on moving forward

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Poems

She Walks in
Beauty

by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,—

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

If

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Sonnet 18

by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest;

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

How Do I Love
Thee?

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Ode on a Grecian
Urn

by John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearièd,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea-shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

Death

by John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and
down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated
eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her
face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the
fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you
mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Otherwise

By Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

Welcome Morning

~ Anne Sexton ~

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

We Grow Accustomed
to the Dark

By Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark --

When light is put away --

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye --

A Moment -- We uncertain step

For newness of the night --

Then -- fit our Vision to the Dark --

And meet the Road -- erect --

And so of larger -- Darkness --

Those Evenings of the Brain --

When not a Moon disclose a sign --

Or Star -- come out -- within --

The Bravest -- grope a little --

And sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead --

But as they learn to see --

Either the Darkness alters --

Or something in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight --

And Life steps almost straight.

Courage

By Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.

The child's first step,

as awesome as an earthquake.

The first time you rode a bike,

wallowing up the sidewalk.

The first spanking when your heart

went on a journey all alone.

When they called you crybaby

or poor or fatty or crazy

and made you into an alien,

you drank their acid

and concealed it.

Later,

if you faced the death of bombs and bullets

you did not do it with a banner,

you did it with only a hat to

cover your heart.

You did not fondle the weakness inside you

though it was there.

Your courage was a small coal

that you kept swallowing.

If your buddy saved you

and died himself in so doing,

then his courage was not courage,

it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,

if you have endured a great despair,

then you did it alone,

getting a transfusion from the fire,

picking the scabs off your heart,

then wringing it out like a sock.

Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,

you gave it a back rub

and then you covered it with a blanket

and after it had slept a while

it woke to the wings of the roses

and was transformed.

Later,

when you face old age and its natural conclusion

your courage will still be shown in the little ways,

each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,

those you love will live in a fever of love,

and you'll bargain with the calendar

and at the last moment

when death opens the back door

you'll put on your carpet slippers

and stride out.

THE PEACE OF WILD
THINGS

By Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron
feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Let Evening Come

By Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving

up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing

as a woman takes up her needles

and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.

Let the wind die down. Let the shed

go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop

in the oats, to air in the lung

let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

August Third

By May Sarton

These days

Lifting myself up

Like a heavy weight,

Old camel getting to her knees,

I think of my mother

And the inexhaustible flame

That kept her alive

Until she died.

She knew all about fatigue

And how one pushes it aside

For staking up the lilies

Early in the morning,

The way one pushes it aside

For a friend in need,

For a hungry cat.

Mother, be with me.

Today on your birthday

I am older than you were

When you died

Thirty-five years ago.

Thinking of you

The old camel gets to her knees,

Stands up,

Moves forward slowly

Into the new day.

If you taught me one thing

It was never to fail life.

The First Green of
Spring

By David Budbill

Our walking in the swamp picking cowslip, marsh marigold,

this sweet first green of spring. Now sautéed in a pan
melting

to a deeper green than ever they were alive, this green,
this life,

harbinger of things to come. Now we sit at the table
munching

on this message from the dawn which says we and the world

are alive again today, and this is the world's birthday.
And

even though we know we are growing old, we are dying, we

will never be young again, we also know we're still right
here

now, today, and, my oh my! don't these greens taste good.

For Strong Women

Marge Piercy

A strong woman is a woman who is straining

A strong woman is a woman standing

on tiptoe and lifting a barbell

while trying to sing "Boris Godunov."

A strong woman is a woman at work

cleaning out the cesspool of the ages,

and while she shovels, she talks about

how she doesn't mind crying, it opens

the ducts of the eyes, and throwing up

develops the stomach muscles, and

she goes on shoveling with tears in her nose.

A strong woman is a woman in whose head

a voice is repeating, I told you so,

ugly, bad girl, bitch, nag, shrill, witch,

ballbuster, nobody will ever love you back,

why aren't you feminine, why aren't

you soft, why aren't you quiet, why aren't you dead?

A strong woman is a woman determined

to do something others are determined

not be done. She is pushing up on the bottom

of a lead coffin lid. She is trying to raise

a manhole cover with her head, she is trying

to butt her way through a steel wall.

Her head hurts. People waiting for the hole

to be made say, hurry, you're so strong.

A strong woman is a woman bleeding

inside. A strong woman is a woman making

herself strong every morning while her teeth

loosen and her back throbs. Every baby,

a tooth, midwives used to say, and now

every battle a scar. A strong woman

is a mass of scar tissue that aches

when it rains and wounds that bleed

when you bump them and memories that get up

in the night and pace in boots to and fro.

A strong woman is a woman who craves love

like oxygen or she turns blue choking.

A strong woman is a woman who loves

strongly and weeps strongly and is strongly

terrified and has strong needs. A strong woman is strong

in words, in action, in connection, in feeling;

she is not strong as a stone but as a wolf

suckling her young. Strength is not in her, but she

enacts it as the wind fills a sail.

What comforts her is others loving

her equally for the strength and for the weakness

from which it issues, lightning from a cloud.

Lightning stuns. In rain, the clouds disperse.

Only water of connection remains,

flowing through us. Strong is what we make

each other. Until we are all strong together,

a strong woman is a woman strongly afraid.

For Each of You

By Audre Lorde

Be who you are and will be

learn to cherish

that boisterous Black Angel that drives you

up one day and down another

protecting the place where your power rises

running like hot blood

from the same source

as you pain.

When you are hungry

learn to eat

whatever sustains you

until morning

but do not misled by details

simply because you live them.

Do not let you head deny

your hands

any memory of what passes through them

not your eyes

nor your heart

everything can be used

except what is wasteful

(you will need

to remember this when you are accused of destruction.)

Even when they are dangerous examine the heart of those
machines you hate

before you discard them

and never mourn the lack of their power

lest you be condemned

to relieve them.

If you do not learn to hate

you will never be lonely

enough

to love easily

nor will you always be brave

although it does not grow any easier

Do not pretend to convenient beliefs

even when they are righteous

you will never be able to defend your city

while shouting.

Remember whatever pain you bring back

from your dreaming

but do not look for new gods

in the sea

nor in any part of a rainbow

Each time you love

love as deeply as if were

forever

only nothing is

eternal.

Speak proudly to your children

where ever you may find them

tell them

you are offspring of slaves

and your mother was

a princess

in darkness.

To Be of Use

By Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy
cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things
forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

Inaugural Poem

Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry
tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries
out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more
hiding place down here.

You, created only a little
lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling wordsArmed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today,
you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the
world,A River sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered
country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Yet, today I call you to my
riverside,If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will
sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when I and theTree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a
bloody sear across yourBrow and when you yet knew you stillKnew nothing.

The River sings and sings
on.

There is a true yearning to
respond toThe singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the
Hispanic, the JewThe African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the GreekThe Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last
of every TreeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me,
here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of
some passedOn traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first
name, youPawnee, Apache and Seneca, youCherokee Nation, who rested with me, thenForced on bloody feet, left me to the employment ofOther seekers--desperate for gain,Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede,
the German, the Scot ...You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, boughtSold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves
beside me.

I am the Tree planted by
the River,Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I
the TreeI am yours--your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you
have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its
wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if facedWith courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.

Give birth againTo the dream.

Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of
your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your heartsEach new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.

Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me, theRock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the
mendicant.

No less to you now than the
mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this
new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister's eyes, intoYour brother's face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning.

All of the above and more, I post about my experiences nourishing myself and my family physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually, particularly as my family and I adapt to a back injury that has limited my abilities and activities. Email me at mommyhungry at gmail dot com.

Please note: Mommy Hungry does not accept products for review, participate in advertising, or promote giveaways on this blog.